If I'm Being Honest(59)

“Asshole,” someone from the crowd yells.

“—and Janet—”

“Slut,” someone else yells.

“—ring the doorbell,” the judge finishes. “You know when that is?” Everyone nods enthusiastically except me and Brendan. When the judge walks off, Hannah squeals and flings her arms around Grant, who throws me a grateful, and exhilarated, look.

We wait for ten minutes on the picnic blankets until it’s time for the movie to begin. There’s a chorus of cheers when a Frank-N-Furter, who’s a dead ringer for Tim Curry himself, takes the stage under the red Rocky lips, holding a microphone. He welcomes the audience and starts giving safety instructions.

But my mind’s on Brendan. On whatever this Grand Central Market plan is. I honestly don’t know if I want to go on a date with Brendan. I definitely don’t dislike the idea. I remember the way he looked at me, the times he’s made me laugh. He’s unpredictable, with his wry humor and his texting and his tendency to surprise me, like how he showed up here in the first place. In his costume, no less.

I steal a peek at him sitting beside me. His eyes are fixed on the stage, his features shadowed in the nighttime. I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder if he’s thinking what I’m thinking.

There’s something between us.

I don’t know if it’s real, and I’m trying hard to deny it. For one thing, he’s Brendan Rosenfeld, until recently Barfy Brendan. He’s a junior and an outcast. I go two years without a boyfriend, earning a reputation for rejecting every guy within flirting distance, and now Brendan’s making me light-headed? For another thing, there’s Andrew. It’s Andrew I’ve liked for a year. If not for him, I wouldn’t be here in the company of a group of costume fetishists. He fits into my life, into every one of my plans.

Brendan Rosenfeld fits into none of my plans. I have no reason to let him distract me.

Yet here I am, distracted.

The announcer’s voice yanks me from my thoughts. “Now, virgins, where are you?” he bellows. Grant and Abby instantly point at me, grinning broadly. I’m too caught up in my head, too frazzled by Brendan next to me to react. The announcer goes on, his voice dripping lasciviously. “The long wait is over. I’m glad you saved yourselves for tonight. For all of us.” He winks theatrically and receives hoots and cheers from the crowd. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to force you up here for some ignominious humiliation,” he says.

The audience groans. I heave a breath of relief.

“No, I have something even better planned.” My nerves return with an unpleasant tingle. The Frank-N-Furter struts from one end of the stage to the other. “As is customary with anyone’s first time, there was someone special enough or just plain hot enough to get you to hand in your V-card. I want you to find that special someone,” he continues. I think I catch Brendan dart a glance in my direction. “And with consent, of course,” the announcer says, “I want you to thank that person for popping your Rocky cherry . . . with a kiss.”

The crowd howls, but I hardly hear them. My eyes find Brendan’s, both of us frozen in uncertainty. Technically, I brought him here. I can’t tell if he’s going to go in for the kiss—which is when I realize I want him to. I want to find out whether whatever is between us is real.

I start to lean over, closing the charged distance separating us.

“Well, Bright,” I hear over my shoulder. Paige plops down onto the blanket between Brendan and me, turning to me with a smirk. I blink. “I’m the one who brought you, right?” She’s smiling slyly, and I want nothing other than for her to go away. But the window is shut between me and Brendan. If I were to reopen it, I’d lose the easy pretense of the Rocky ritual. I’d be kissing him for real.

I recover my composure. “I’m willing if you are,” I tell her.

Paige shrugs. “Why not?”

Without a moment’s pause, I lean forward. Paige does, too, and just like that I’m pressing a big, dramatic kiss to her lips. I feel her swallowing a laugh, which of course makes me bite my cheek to keep down one of my own. It’s not an unpleasant kiss. It’s just, it’s Paige, and it couldn’t be more platonic. Abby whoops and Grant applauds, while Charlie collapses in stitches. Finally, Paige and I pull apart when we can’t hold our laughter in any longer.

I catch sight of Brendan half covering his eyes behind Paige, and I can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed to have dodged the virgin sacrifice.

“Thanks for that, guys,” he groans. “I get to see Cameron Bright make out with a girl, and it’s my sister.”



* * *





It’s not long after the movie begins that I come to realize everyone’s following some unwritten script. Every time the character named Brad walks on screen, everybody yells, “Asshole.” They throw rice for the wedding scene, and they break out water guns and newspapers when Janet and Brad get caught in the rain.

I’m swept up in the rituals. I yell obscenities with Hannah and Paige, I dodge Grant’s water gun. I have no idea what’s going on—I can hardly follow the plot—and I don’t care.

We run on stage for “Time Warp.” The dance is easy enough that I learn it right then and there from watching my . . . friends. Because that’s what we feel like now. A jump to the left. A step to the right. I laugh until my sides ache when Brendan swivels his hips to the music. He catches my eye and grins, his gestures growing more exaggerated the longer I laugh.